Dr Darryl Birkett: Counsellor to the Immortal
by Igorina
Summary: Even the best of relationships can sometimes do with a helping hand. As one hapless therapist finds out to his cost. Contains CrowleyxAziraphale, HasturxLigur, FaminexPollution, ShadwellxMadam Tracy and BrianxWensleydale.
1. Finding Shared Ground

Disclaimer: With the exception of the unfortunate Dr. Darryl, I own none of the character or settings mentioned herein.

A/N: I wrote this little series of ficlets about a year ago, but completely forgot to post the to my account.

The therapist, a balding middle-aged man named Darryl Birkett, who had numerous accolades and several television appearances to his name, was already considering high wire trapeze artist as an alternative, less stressful career option.

"So, I'm sensing that there's a lot of friction in this relationship," he said, as the taller of the two clients, a very thin man in a badly fitted suit, clenched and unclenched his fists. The building shook, as if in warning.

"He's been lurking with other people," said his companion, a short, squat man, whose face was filled with something that might have been deep hurt but had about an equal chance of being homicidal mania.

"It didn't mean anything, Ligur," snarled the thin man. "It was just a bit of casual skulking, nothing serious."

The one identified as Ligur sniffled; it was a horrible sound to be forced to listen to. "That's not what Belphegor said. And I heard Belial and Dagon laughing about how some succubus had told them that you keep meeting Pazuzu for a few hours loitering by the Lake of Fire every Thursday. "

For a moment the tall man looked well and truly cornered. "That… that's just business loitering. It's not like it's proper lurking or nothing. Besides, it's not as though you ever want to go lurking anymore. Every time I ask you keep saying that you've got an 'eadache or you've got some extra tempting to do or you've to fiddle your accounts."

"There's more to damnation than lurking Hastur," said Ligur, looking as though he were about to burst out of his too tight, grubby mac at any moment. "There's tormenting and threatening and shrieking."

"You should know by now that I'm not a shrieking sort of demon. If you wanted one of them you should have stuck to incubi."

"Well, maybe I'll go and find one then."

"What! You wouldn't."

"I bloody would."

The one called Hastur was suddenly holding what looked to be a ball of fire in the palm of his hand.

"Hah, don't like it when I threaten to go off and lurk with something else do you?" called out Ligur, voice filled with sudden triumph.

"I think," ventured Dr. Darryl, in a terrified whisper. "That what you need to do is find common ground, something you both enjoy."

For a few seconds both of them seemed to think about this.

"What…"

"You mean like…"

"Gutting snakes?"

They looked at each other with something akin to tenderness - albeit a very horrible and disturbing variety of tenderness of the kind you really wouldn't want small children to see - in their eyes.

"If that's… er… the sort of thing you like," said Darryl whom, strict vegetarian and animal rights activist though he was, wasn't about argue.

"We could go and gut some now," said Ligur, face bearing a frighteningly ecstatic expression.

Hastur, seemingly placated from his earlier outburst of near mass destruction, looked briefly at the ball of flame still in his hands and casually tossed it out through the open window.

There was a very loud explosion.

Darryl dived under his desk and didn't re-emerge until the sirens had finally stopped and he was absolutely certain that the two terrifying creatures had vacated the surrounding area. He was already planning what he was going to wear for his first trapeze act.

After gulping down nearly half a bottle of Jack Daniels he plucked up the courage to look at his schedule for the following day.

His heart immediately froze.

Pencilled in for the 9:00 a.m. through till 10:00 a.m. slot were Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell.

He groaned.

It was going to be round fifteen of the _'You've been thwarting me behind my back' 'Well you're the one who left coffee stains on Dorian Gray'_ argument.

Time to start seeking out an available circus school.


	2. Conflict Resolution Or Not

Disclaimer: With the exception of the unfortunate Dr. Darryl, I own none of the character or settings mentioned herein.

It was half past nine in the morning and Dr. Darryl Birkett, television soundbite therapist extraordinaire, was already longing for the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels that currently dwelt in the bottom draw of his desk. Strictly speaking he was not qualified for the position to which he had exulted himself(1), nor did he subscribe to any credible school of therapeutic intervention(2), yet he truly did not deserve the situation into which he had been flung.

The two gentlemen, Crowley and Fell, had been coming to see him for over seven weeks now, and it had become overwhelmingly clear after only two appointments that what they wanted from these sessions wasn't so much conflict resolution as an audience. Today it was obvious from Crowley's disgruntled slouch and Fell's tight lipped expression that they'd come in after another almighty row.

"So what would you say is the main source of conflict in you relationship at present?"

"Well," said Fell, voice filled with smug annoyance. "I'm sure that any reasonable person would acknowledge that his behaviour with regards to publicly available works of literature is …."

"Main source of conflict apart from your partner's tendency to steal library books and use them as glorified coffee mats, that is," he hastily cut in, desperately trying to avoid the subject that had dominated the last four sessions.

Fell was silent for a moment before opening his mouth once more. "In that case I'd say that the main source of conflict in our relationship at present lies with the fact that Crowley's a borderline sex addict with exhibitionist tendencies."

This statement seemed to infuriate Crowley. "What? I'm a nymphomaniac now, am I? I've told you before, sleeping around is pretty much one of the job requirements."

Dr. Darryl's eyes widened. He'd often heard Fell make pointed comments about the immoral and depraved nature of Crowley's profession, but he hadn't expected the dark haired man to involved in anything like_ that_. Though when you thought about how much all of those designer suits must have cost, it really shouldn't have come as all that much of a surprise.

"And is Anthony's erm… choice of career causing you a lot of distress?" he asked, feeling a fleeting sense of hope that the root cause of the couple's persistent, and downright peculiar, arguments had just been revealed to him.

"Not really," said Fell, with a sigh. "Naturally I don't approve, and I don't see any reason why he has to take such relish in some of the deplorable things he does, but one does have to be realistic about these things. After all, I did know what he was when we first met."

"So you don't think that a change in his line of work would diminish some of the bad feeling between you."

Fell's expression became speculative, as if he had suddenly been hit by an entirely new concept. "Well," he said, brightly, "I'm sure that if he were to fully repent and…."

Dr. Darryl did not find out what else Crowley could do, as the dark haired man cut Fell off with a loud and dangerous hiss. "Don't even think about it angel."

"My dear, I was only bringing it up as a possibility."

"Well don't. I mean, it's not as if I'd try and get you to fall is it? So I don't see why you can't extend the courtesy to me."

The atmosphere seemed to plunge from 'a tad prickly' to 'ice cold and furious' in less than a second.

"You were talking about sex addiction and exhibitionism," said Dr. Darryl, with great hast, at once very aware, if only on a subconscious level, that the conversation as it stood was now heading in the direction of somewhere very scary, probably dangerous and definitely not fit for human overhearing.

Much to his relief, 'ice cold and furious' was, after a few extremely worrying moments, supplanted by 'rather annoyed'.

"Ah yes," said Fell. "As I was saying, I've learnt to live with what he gets up to at work, but he will insist on making ridiculous demands of me."

"I do not make demands," Crowley protested. "I make subtle suggestions and occasionally drop very big hints."

"Crowley, you sulk for hours if I refuse to fulfil your lascivious whims. Besides, I have it on very good authority that your libido is unusually high, even by demonic standards."

"If you will insist on conversing with that frigid lot in the Seventh Circle, then I'm sure that they'll say things like that. Anyway, why the hel- Manchester were you discussing my libido with other demons?"

"My dear, I don't recall saying anything about actually conversing with your fellow demons about the subject."

"Who've you been talking to then?"

"I wasn't talking – well, not about that at least – I was merely listening."

Crowley paused for a moment, as if certain pieces of a mental jigsaw puzzle were falling into place. "That tart Nagini's been gossiping again hasn't she? I would have thought that you of all people would be above listening to idle rumours."

"Ah," said Fell, looking at once rather shamefaced at this discovery of his fascination with casual tittle-tattle. "Well, she did have some frightfully interesting stories about Hastur and Belphegor. Apparently Ligur doesn't suspect a thing, but half of Pandemonium have seen what the pair of them get up to at the Lake of Fire every weekend. It's really quite shocking how…. Oh, er… sorry." The fair haired man's face flushed with embarrassment.

Crowley, obviously confident that he now possessed the upper hand, smirked. "Not every entity in creation thinks that once a decade in the missionary position is enough, you know?"

"My dear, now you really are being thoroughly absurd. I merely think that twice a day is a bit much for beings of our age."

"Not what you said last week when you tied me to the bed and covered me in marmalade. Come to think of it, you've never let me tie you to the bed and lick marmalade off your stomach."

"But you don't like marmalade."

"If fact," continued Crowley, clearly not wanting to be sidetracked into a discussion of marmalade the subjective likeableness thereof, "it strikes me that when there's something that you want to try, it's part of a normal healthy relationship, but when there's something I want, I'm just being a base sex addict."

"Yes, but nothing that I want involves being a public place at the time."

"Three words: Harrods display window."

"I was rather drunk at the time. You clearly took advantage of me. Besides, at least that wasn't actually dangerous, unlike that thing you suggested yesterday."

"I still don't see what was wrong with it."

"Consider, if you will, the fate of an angel discorporated by a collision with a jumbo jet whilst engaged in carnal relations with a demon at 50,000 feet. Heaven may be willing to overlook some improprieties, but I wouldn't get away with that."

This increasingly heated debate may have continued for some time were it not for the fact that the bickering supernatural beings noticed that Dr. Darryl seemed to be having a most peculiar turn.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale, as a snap of his fingers sent the man into a docile trance. "I do hope we haven't upset him to much. He has seemed rather tense these last few sessions. It must have been the talk of discorporation that did it."

"It's all the same with these TV therapist types," said Crowley, who appeared to be using the intermission to have a good leaf through the man's planner and appointment book, "can't look after their own emotional wellbeing and inner harmony to save their collective lives. Hey, look at this, that American evangelist bloke's coming to see him, drugs and underaged prostitutes it says here, I didn't know he was one of ours."

"Crowley, put that down this instant. It's private and confidential." Aziraphale nevertheless made a mental note to pay said American evangelist a brief professional visit.

The demon made an exaggerated sigh, put the book back on the desk and began search out the alcoholic substances that had been cleverly situated in well hidden locations around the office.

"Now then Darryl," said Aziraphale, deciding that, on balance, it was probably best to ignore the fact that Crowley was now downing a bottle of rather expensive looking port. "When you wake up in five minutes time, you'll remember having lovely dream about whatever it is you like best and all mention of discorporation will have been expunged from your mind. You'll also begin to reconsider the way you're using alcohol as a crutch and maybe think about joining a local church group, there's a nice one a few…."

"Hey, no party political broardcasts. I thought that this was supposed to be neutral territory."

"If that's the case then why on earth are you engaging in gratuitous acts of petty theft?"

"Alright, point taken," said Crowley, grudgingly wishing the bottle of port full and back to its rightful place. "It won't work, you know. It'll take a lot more than angelic suggestion to get this one off the bottle. I've seen who his next appointment's with."

"Oh?"

"Do the names Raven Sable and Albus White mean anything to you?"

(1) As fine an institution as The Online Correspondence College of Royston Vasey might be, it was not accredited by any professional bodies.  
Apart from maybe the one in the cellar.

(2) His 'technique' mainly consisted of listening in a kindly manner, nodding at the appropriate moments and making the occasional benign sounding suggestion.


	3. Moving Forward

Disclaimer: With the exception of the unfortunate Dr. Darryl, I own none of the character or settings mentioned herein.

Dr. Darryl Birkett, therapist of cable channel renown, was well aware that he was a man of many faults. There were his qualifications for a start, most of which had been purchased via an exceedingly dubious looking advert that landed in his e-mail in-box sometime during the summer of 2001, and the fact that he routinely diverged from the truth when declaring his annual earnings to people of an Inland Revenue persuasion, not to mention the time that he had removed several dozen pint glasses from the Student's Union pub during his days as an undergraduate sociology student(1). He was quickly coming to realise however that his main flaw was not dishonesty or even an occasional tendency to acquire things that didn't rightfully belong to him. No, his main flaw was what one might call 'blind optimism': the persistent and unfounded hope that, contrary to all prior experience, Dukes Hastur and Ligur wouldn't show up for their Thursday morning appointment, or that Mr. Fell would healthily vent repressed frustration about something other than the state of books in public libraries these days, or that Mr. Crowley would one day cease bragging about his predilection for causing frequent civic chaos. Thus, when he saw the names Raven Sable and Albus 'Chalky' White listed in his appointment book there was a part of him that doggedly strove to hope that their problems would be of a normal, or at the very least earthily abnormal, nature.

Alas, it was not to be, and he could instinctively tell, heart sinking to hitherto unplumbed depths, from the moment that they walked through the door that they were going be 'those' kind of people.

The first thing that struck him was the acrid and worryingly toxic smell that seemed to drift in the wake of the pale, white-haired youth with the blissfully spaced-out expression, the second was the sudden gnawing hunger that assailed his stomach as the slim, raven-haired man with the immaculately groomed beard gave him a small and slightly unsettling smile.

"Er, Mr. Raven Sable and Mr. Albus White?" he enquired, valiantly trying to resist the urge to let slide fifteen years of conscientious veganism and devour the partially eaten Burger Lord Flame Grill Special that now inexplicably lay next to the waste paper basket.

"Dr. Sable, actually," said the dark-haired man, as he took the seat to the right of the desk.

Darryl felt a mild surge of panic and inferiority; if this man had actual, bona-fide letters after his name then the chances of his own credential creativity being recognised was probably far higher than usual. He took a sideways glance at the certificate on the wall reading 'Honorary Doctorate from the University of Camford' and hoped that the printer paper and non-existent institution weren't too easily discernable.

"May I ask where you heard about me?" he asked, feeling extremely perturbed by the faintly amused appraisal that Dr. Sable was giving his formerly pristine consulting room. White, for his part, seemed to be staring out of the window; enraptured by the traffic going down the main road outside. Darryl inwardly heaved a heavy sigh of resignation; clients with obvious substance abuse problems were always the hardest to work with.

"You were recommended by a colleague of ours. You'll probably remember her, most mortals who live to tell the tale do."

Darryl paled as, completely unbidden, visions of a red haired woman with a very dangerous smile, strolling in from the carnage that had been once been a waiting room, flooded into his head. He couldn't help but recall how the armed police who'd later arrived on the scene had told him, in no uncertain terms, how very lucky he was to have avoided arrest and prosecution for inciting acts of extreme violence. "Er, you don't mean," he shuddered, "Ms. Zuigiber, by any chance?"

"She said she'd never before felt quite as in touch with her inner nature than she did after coming to see you."

"Oh good," he said weakly, trying to ignore the faintly orgasmic gasps that White was making every time a car with a faulty exhaust drove past the building. "And what it that you both feel the need to talk about today?"

"I'm sure you're aware, Doctor Birkett," said Dr. Sable, who seemed to put an almost imperceptible ironic twist on the word 'Doctor', "that working alongside somebody you're involved with in a – how should I put it - a more personal sense, can cause a certain amount of friction."

Darryl felt his stomach growl with unprecedented violence.

"He's just annoyed because I got to a few small African nations before he did," said White, momentarily pulling himself from his state of daze, before heaving an ecstatic sigh as an overflowing litter bin across the road was overturned by a sudden gust of wind.

A look of acute irritation crossed Dr. Sable's ever-so-slightly gaunt features. "It was a childish act of petty revenge for a brief period during which, unbeknown to me, one of my factories in Indonesia started to recycle its waste."

"Er, right," said Darryl, feeling utterly lost. It was a sensation to which he was of late becoming uncomfortably familiar with. "So you feel that workplace competition is leading to interpersonal conflict?"

Dr. Sable nodded. "Conflict's more Red's line of work, but you've pretty much hit the nail on the head."

Outside there was the sound of brakes screeching as a motorist swerved in a futile attempt to avoid hitting a low flying pigeon. This was quickly followed by a loud crashing noise, as said car proceeded to plough into an articulated lorry carrying several tonnes of industrial waste.

"So wonderful," murmured White, as the lorry's caustic contents spilled out onto the road.

"I don't suppose that there's any chance that the two of you could work in a more co-operative fashion, is there?"

"We've tried," said Dr. Sable, "but these days they're too eager to give him the credit for my work. It's always global warming that's causing the crops to fail, or acid rain that's ruining the soil. You can't seem to have a famine without 'environmental factors' anymore."

Darryl nodded in what he hoped was a completely neutral and non-committal fashion. He knew instinctively that this line of discussion, if pursued any further, was likely to lead to places that most human minds really didn't want to visit. "I notice that there seems to be a rather wide age gap between the two of you. Do you think that this might be a contributing factor to your erm… issues?" What he really meant was 'your boyfriend looks like he's barely legal, don't you think that getting involved with men who're clearly half your age is possibly, you know, on balance, a rather bad idea', but diplomacy, professionalism and a recently honed instinct for self-preservation prevented him for saying as much.

"He's older than he looks," said Sable.

"Oh, I wasn't suggesting anything like _that_," said Darryl hastily. "I was just asking if er… the gap in er… life experience was a source of tension."

White snorted with what would under normal circumstances have been rather amusing petulance. "He's always comparing me to Pestilence."

"Pestilence?"

"The one that came before me."

Darryl grasped the only branch of logic he could find in the sea of disorientation in which he was currently being forced to tread water. "Ah, I think I can see what you're saying. You want to be respected for the individual you are, rather than being constantly compared to his ex-partner; though I don't think that referring to them as Pestilence is very healthy."

"But he was disease itself," protested White.

"I can see you dislike him very much; but in any relationship have to learn to accept each others pasts and move on. Start looking to the future. Maybe you could start by…." For a few moments he tried desperately to think of something. "…by doing something together that neither of you have tried before."

"That might be more difficult that you'd think," said Dr. Sable.

"Well," said White, suddenly looking decided alert "I don't think that either of us has been on a space shuttle before."

A look of intrigued speculation settled on Dr. Sable's face. "If freeze dried MEALS were the official rations of the next mission it would do wonders for sales."

"And," said White, face blissfully glazing over once more, "I hear that they're thinking of dumping toxic waste up there."

"Thank you Dr. Birkett," said Dr. Sable, "I believe that you have might just have inspired the start of a bold new venture."

"Glad to have helped," said Darryl in small, rather lost, voice. Any relief he would have otherwise felt at the fact that the couple seemed to be making a move to leave was offset by the frighteningly desperate craving for food – the greasier and less environmentally sound the better - was now assuaging him. "It's disgusting the way those fast food people treat animals," he murmured as he found himself unable to keep from staring longingly at the discarded hamburger next to the bin.

"I wouldn't worry," said Dr. Sable with another of his disconcerting smiles, "I don't think you'll find any sort of animal derived nutritional content in _that_ burger."

(1)Though in all fairness he had, ten years later, sent an anonymous letter filled with twenty pound notes to the proprietor, following a spontaneous fit of guilt induced by an ill-timed encounter with an over-zealous arch angel out for an evening stroll amongst creation.


	4. Socially Inappropriate Behaviour

Disclaimer: With the exception of the unfortunate Dr. Darryl, I own none of the character or settings mentioned herein.

All that Dr. Darryl Birkett knew about his new client prior to the appointment was that he'd recently received a Community Rehabilitation Order for seventeen counts of sexual harassment and one count of aggravated assault with a pin. He'd taken him on as part of his new Counselling in the Community Initiative: a chance to take therapeutic intervention to those of a lower socio-economic status than his usual paying clients(1). Six months ago the thought of having to deal with such a person would have filled him with mild dread(2); but given the nature – or for that matter supernature - of his most recent cases, a dirty old man with a nipple fixation was starting to sound increasingly like light relief.

What he hadn't reckoned on however was said nipple fixator being Shadwell, or to be more precise, Shadwell's unshakeable faith in the righteousness of his nipple counting cause.

"But don't you see," said Darryl, trying desperately to avoid looking at the boil on the man's face whilst simultaneously attempting to present an open and welcoming front, "that barging into lingerie stores and trying to conduct a spot inspection of the patrons is not socially appropriate behaviour."

"Well," said Shadwell, revealing a set of yellowing false teeth that instantly cause the fastidious doctor to recoil, "I wouldn't know about this 'socially appropriate behaviour' thing that you southern nancy boys like talking about, but I've had tae come out of retirement due to all of this phenomena going around."

"Phenomena?"

A dark look crossed Shadwell's face. "Aye, phenomena like that yeh wouldnae believe."

"What sort of phenomena?"

"Talking animals."

"Talking _animals_?" said Darryl, utterly perplexed. He'd been told that the man had a bit of trouble delineating fantasy from reality; but not that he was out and out delusional.

"Aye." Shadwell proceeded to rummage in his pocket. Three scrunched up - and irrefutably used - paper handkerchiefs and a fluff-coated boiled sweet were removed during the early phases of this excavation and placed, much to Darryl's horror, on the newly polished desk. After what seemed like several minutes of searching, Shadwell finally produced a very creased piece of glossy paper, which had quite obviously been cut from a glossy catalogue. "Take a look at this."

The last thing that Darryl wanted to do was come into physical contact with anything that had been in Shadwell's pocket. But both politeness and professionalism dictated that backing away in revulsion wasn't an option available to him at this moment. He therefore tentatively took the cutting being proffered between the tips of his thumb and middle finger in an attempt to expose as little skin as possible to what was quite probably a laminated breeding ground for all sorts of unpleasant things. For a few moments he stared at the picture thereon. "It's er…a furby," he said, still utterly perplexed.

Shadwell nodded. "Imps. Witches familiars. An' now they're flauntin 'em in our faces. Corruptin' the young. And that's not the worst of it."

Darryl, severely disturbed by the sudden fervour in the old mans gaze, found himself attempting to back further into his leather desk chair. "It isn't?"

"I'll tell yea what the worst of it is. The worst of it was that witch of a magistrate. She cursed me."

Darryl swallowed. "Cursed you?" he queried in a small, nervous voice.

"Aye, with an ASBO. A terrible thing it is. I cannae even go to the butchers without her sending her infernal minions after me."

"Infernal minions? Oh you mean the police."

"I don't call them proper police, not with those diabolic 'taser' things. Didn't even have proper truncheons."

"Well, to be fair you had been arrested after trying to assault a man in a Barney the Dinosaur costume."

"Exorcising the foul demon, I was." Shadwell looked with pride at one of his fingers. "I defeated the devil himself once, laddie, didn't know that did yea?"

"Really?" said Darryl, weakly. A treacherous and rather masochistic part of his mind began to muse that the way things were going it wouldn't be long before Lucifer himself showed up to unburden himself of emotional baggage. "You er…said that you've recently come out of retirement. Why is that?"

"The daughters o'the night are still practising their wicked crafts and my witchfinder private can't do his job."

Darryl inwardly groaned. Mr. Shadwell's privates really weren't something that he wanted to think about. "Have you gone to see your doctor about the problem? You can get Viagra on prescription these days, you know? Not that I'd er… actually recommend visiting prostitutes, of course."

Shadwell's response was one of complete incomprehension. "Yea southern nancy boys talk nea sense at all."

"What I meant was…."

Much to his relief Darryl's uncertain elaboration on what he meant was cut off by the sound of a mobile telephone playing the national anthem. Surprisingly the sound was emanating from one of Shadwell's other coat pockets. Another six or seven crumpled paper handkerchiefs were displaced onto the desk as, muttering something about the tools of the devil, Shadwell fished around for the phone, which, when removed, was covered in almost as much fluff as the boiled sweet. "Wretched machine," he said, holding the out-of-date phone as if it were about to explode. "Shameless hoor got it for me."

After making sure that it was understood that the infernal piece of technology was not of his own purchasing, Shadwell grudgingly pressed the answer button and, with a grimace, held it to his ear.

"Aye, tis me," he said, in a voice so loud that one suspected the caller could hear him without the use of a telephone.

"Neh I cannae stand it…Aye, five tins of condensed milk…Aye…What, yea harlot…Aye, alright then, ten minutes it is." And with that he, once again regarding the device with deep loathing and suspicion, pressed the 'end call' button.

"Urgent call?" said Darryl

"Aye," said Shadwell, "My painted Jezebel's makin' the tea. So I best be going."

"Oh…er…right." Darryl tried to hide his heartfelt relief.

"I'll be back next week then yeh southern dim-wit."

"See you next week Mr. Shadwell."

"Oh, and ah saw those four younguns in yer waiting room. One of them's the antichrist yeh know."

"Really, Mr. Shadwell, you shouldn't be so judgemental about the youth of today, I think that if we all learnt to…." Darryl paled as he trailed off. "When…er…you say antichrist, what exactly do you mean?"

Shadwell smiled. It was a rather frightening sight. "Yeh'll see laddie, yeh'll see."

(1) Or depending on whom you asked: a cynical drive to get some good publicity following that highly embarrassing arrest for curb crawling. Both Crowley and Aziraphale were putting it down in their respective records of small successes.  
He was the first person in the local red light district's eighty-five years of sordid history to genuinely have been asking for directions to the nearest all night supermarket.

(2) Needless to say Dr. Darryl's favourite sort of client was the type that was rich, insecure and convinced that they needed a years worth of bi-weekly appointments.


	5. The Importance of Compromise

Disclaimer: With the exception of the unfortunate Dr. Darryl, I own none of the character or settings mentioned herein.

The quartet of twenty-somethings who entered the office after Mr. Shadwell's departure were, much to Dr. Darryl Birkett's relief, all distinctly human-like in appearance. There was however something about them that made him just a little uneasy. This was, as far as he could tell from a few moments of on the spot introspection, mainly due to the similarity of the woman named Pepper to Ms. Zuigiber(1); he just hoped and prayed that they weren't in any way related. There was also something a little… what was the right word? A little odd about the blond-haired man who had introduced himself as Adam Young. It was the way that looked exactly like you'd imagine a blond-haired, twenty-something male to look if you were told to close your eyes and envision such a person. Still, within the space of a week Dr. Darryl Birkett, leading talking head on _Tomorrow Morning_, had attempted to divert Duke Hastur and Duke Ligur's jealously issues away from a path that would inevitably lead to mass destruction, listened with ever growing discomfort to Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell bicker about the equitability - or otherwise - of their sex life, faced a disturbing hour of hunger pangs and smoke inhalation when Mr. White and Mr. Sable had dropped by to discuss the problems inherent in intimate relationships between co-workers and tried – quite probably in vain – to convince Mr. Shadwell that attempting to conduct on the spot nipple counts in local department stores was a very bad idea; and had now reached the point of 'how much worse can it get'.

"So the four of you are flatmates then?" he said, as said four sat themselves down in the easy chairs opposite the desk. As he said this he couldn't help but momentarily dwell on the fact that there had seemingly only been two easy chairs in the room when he'd come to work this morning.

"Look," said Adam, "before we start I should probably let you know that I'm an antichrist. Just so you're not wondering."

"I see," said Darryl, trying not to let the sudden stab of panic show. "You're not er… going to turn me into anything unnatural are you?" For some reason as soon a he'd said this an image of Mr. Shadwell popped into his mind.

Adam shook his head in the manner of one who for whom myth dispelling was a regular occurrence. "I don't go messing around with things Dr. Birkett. Well, apart from that time when Brian and Wensley got themselves accidentally sent to Azkaban. But that wasn't _really_ messing about."

Darryl couldn't help but form the distinct impression that what Adam did and didn't term _really_ messing about was a tad on the arbitrary side, but decided that discretion was a virtue and merely nodded in what he hoped was an easy going manner.

"He doesn't go around cleaning up other people's bedroom for them," supplied Pepper, in what was clearly intended to be a helpful manner.

"He doesn't even bother cleaning up his own bedroom," muttered the fair haired man who'd been introduced as Wensleydale.

"Not everybody thinks that it's necessary to clean the skirting board with bleach twice a week," said the unkempt looking man wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the name Brian, who was sitting next to him. "Besides, harsh detergents are bad for the environment."

Wensleydale scowled. "Oh come on Brian, I'd say that leaving dirty plates lying around for two months is bad for our environment."

"Look, it's not my fault if I sometimes forget things like that. Besides, if it bothered you that much why didn't you clean it up yourself."

Wensleydale looked at the floor and mumbled something inaudible. 

"What?"

"Pepper told me not to," said Wensleydale, his expression one of mild embarrassment.

"Why not," said Brian, looking vaguely confused.

"Because," said Pepper, in tones that suggested dissent would be futile, "you can't expect Wensley to deal with your messes all the time. And I'm not just talking about the ones that are likely to cause rodent infestations."

Brian's expression of confusion magnified to a degree that Darryl was sure had to be calculated, whilst Wensley looked almost as though he wanted to crawl into a corner and hide. Adam, for his part, seemed to be observing proceedings in what appeared to be a calm and hopeful fashion.

"There's also the fact that you running to him for money every time it's your turn to pay the rent and the fact that you expect him to sort things out for you when you're too hung over or stoned to go to work."

"I don't," protested Brian. "Well, not recently anyway. You know I stopped taking illegal substances after I had that hallucination where the bloke made of fire rose from the ground." Darryl found himself taking a sideways glance at Adam who now seemed to be shifting around in a slightly uncomfortable fashion. He was certainly able to sympathise though. Whilst he knew that royalty were generally well known for doing things differently, he couldn't help but wish Prince Beelzebub could have booked an appointment via telephone or e-mail. "Besides," continued Brian. "I don't see what mine and Wensley's relationship's got to do with you."

"Wensley's my friend too, and I don't see why…." She trailed off as a look of sudden realisation appeared on her face. "Relationship? I thought that you two were just occasionally having casual sex."

Wensley's face turned a rather striking shade of beetroot.

For a moment Brian looked as though he were in imminent danger of making a comment about it 'being a lot more than occasional' or querying why Pepper's prior assessment of the situation was incongruous with the concept of 'relationship'. Fortunately he settled for a defensive "It's not as though we all have to tell each other everything, is it?"  
"But how long have you, you know, known it was a relationship?"

Brian shrugged. "It just sort of happened."

Pepper opened her mouth, but seemed unable to think of a suitable come back.

Darryl, aware that he was dealing with the emotional wellbeing of the Antichrist's companions and feeling that he really ought to do something to stop the argument from escalating cleared his throat. "You know, when relationships between friends change like this it's often difficult for other people in the group to adapt."

"I don't have problems with adapting," said Pepper, sounding rather affronted. For a brief moment Darryl found himself assailed with visions of Ms. Zuigiber wielding a very sharp looking sword.

"Of course," he said hastily, trying desperately to push the image of a dangerous scarlet smile out of his head, "this doesn't happen it all cases; but when you're living together it's important to respect each other's personal space."

"I always respect other people's personal space," said Pepper, once again sounding rather affronted.

It dawned on Darryl that neither Pepper nor Brian was going to respond very well to any sort of direct suggestion that they were doing something wrong. "Erm… have you ever considered a cleaning rota. So you know who's supposed to be doing what."

"We tried," said Pepper, "but Wensley insisted on having everything timed to the minute, and he included sterilising the crockery with surgical strength cleaner twice a week."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to keep things clean," said Wensleydale.

Pepper rolled her eyes. "Wensley, there's clean and then there's obsessive compulsive."

Brian looked as though he was trying desperately to fight the urge to make an extremely obvious crack about Wensley also liking things dirty. To his eternal credit, he succeeded.

"I'm not obsessive at all," said Wensley, with a frown.

Pepper gestured to Darryl. "Look, you're a therapist, don't you think that he sounds obsessive."

Aware that Pepper was now looking at him in the same, rather worrying, way that Ms. Zuigiber had, and that Wensley was now doing a fair approximation of Dr. Sable's intent stare, Darryl found himself looking around for a path of escape. When none were forthcoming he decided that diplomacy was the only solution. "Twice a week does sound a little excessive, though obviously everybody had their own very personal standards where hygiene's concerned. I think that maybe you need to find a compromise that you can all live with."

"I suppose that it wouldn't be too bad if you three would just wash up after you've had a meal," conceded Wensleydale.

"I suppose that wouldn't be too bad," said Pepper.

"Alright," said Brian, grudgingly, "but no standing next to me and critiquing my pan scrubbing ability."

Adam just smiled, shrugged and nodded.

As far as the rest of the appointment Darryl decided that the safest path would be to leave the four flat mates to talk amongst themselves, which they did. Topics covering everything from Pepper's taste in loud rock music to Brian's taste in clothes to Wensley's insistence on training to be a chartered accountant. At the end of the hour he felt the almost alien sense of having achieved something, though he couldn't for the life of him work out what.

"You're really good," said Adam, as the other three walked back out into the waiting room, Pepper declaring that it was about time that they all started listening to each other and Wensleydale telling Brian that he hadn't actually realised that they were having a relationship but was jolly glad that they were.

"But I didn't actually do anything," said Darryl, in the tones of the terminally confused.

Adam shrugged. "They've started talking to each other again."

"Well, that's… er good, I suppose."

"In fact I think that me and my dad should come and see you sometime. We never seem to talk to each other, you see, and I think that you might be able to help."

Darryl inwardly sighed with resignation. It was, he knew, too much to hope that when he said 'father' the Antichrist was referring to the human male who'd brought him up.

(1) Darryl dreaded the day that Ms. Zuigiber would decide that should could do with another hour long self-affirmation and unburdening session. He really didn't think that the police would look too kindly on another waiting room riot. They had, after all, almost resorted to calling in army backup the first time.


End file.
